My Harp had long hung on a withering tree,-
The snow lay around it, and loud howl'd the blast ;
It had not been touch'd since I touch'd it for thee,
And the winter wind sigh'd thro' its strings as it pass'd.

No lay to its soft flowing tones had been sung, -
No hand had awaken'd its heavenly strain,
Till the last leaf that fell from the oak where it hung,
Touch'd one of its strings and arous'd it again.

And the tones of that harp just as lovelily thrill'd,
As if touch'd by the fingers of beauty once more ;
And the air with harmonious music it fill'd,
Till it sank in the silence that bound it before.

So 'twas with my heart,-for it long had been bound
In silence and misery, darkness and woe,-
And the storm-blast of sorrow was howling around,
And my mind was congeal'd with adversity's snow.

Till a friendly voice whisper'd a once belov'd name,
And my heart leap'd for joy at the sweet soothing words;
And the mem'ry of love filI'd my soul with its flame,
And drew forth sweet tones from the long-silent chords.

And for one little moment my dream was renew'd,
And my soul with the joy of remembrance burn'd,
Till the sounds into silence again were subdued,
And my heart to its desolate darkness return'd.